


Fall Unto Fire

by silver_fish



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Boggarts, M/M, Post-War, Pre-Slash, just a little in-between maybe, not quite fluff not quite angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 10:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4824917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_fish/pseuds/silver_fish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco has a problem, and, somehow, everything just seems to lead back to Potter in the end. (<a href="http://drarry-ponderings.tumblr.com/post/128851977895/imagine-dracos-boggart-after-the-war-to-be-harry">x</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall Unto Fire

**Author's Note:**

> this is a little longer than it was intended to be, and significantly less angsty. so, i would apologize for that, but given my track record, i'm sure nobody is too upset over me writing more on the happy end of things.
> 
> based off of [this post](http://drarry-ponderings.tumblr.com/post/128851977895/imagine-dracos-boggart-after-the-war-to-be-harry) on tumblr.

It was living in his closet.

Pansy, for all the worries she might have had, would have laughed before asking the deeper questions. A metaphor, maybe, she’d say. And, Draco supposed, it was true enough.

But Pansy wasn’t here, not _really_. Draco, for his part could find no humour in the situation. He’d always been bad at that, laughing in the face of terror, of danger, of fear.

It had been this way a year ago, too. Nothing . . . bright. Everything felt dull, grey, _dead_. This room, with the closet that should have been funny but was not, was the dullest in the manor. When the Dark Lord had lived under the roof, coexisting wit Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco, Lucius had boarded the room up. There was no reason to, really; Draco had never stepped foot inside and the Dark Lord was hardly going to go about _exploring_. But, Lucius had done it, anyway, and nobody had ever dared take the boards down.

Well, until Draco finally broke, that is.

What he _wasn’t_ expecting, of all things, was a Boggart.

Five years ago, he had faced one in class. Then, it had been . . . well, it had been his _father_ , and of course he’d known his father hadn’t been tricked into being a Death Eater, but somehow that would have been easier. Draco didn’t like to think of what it meant that at thirteen years old, his biggest fear had been his father telling him they were, essentially, the same person.

But when he had walked into his father’s dusty and dim study, he’d been faced with Harry Potter. School enemy, rejected handshake, hero of the world—it didn’t matter. Draco had stood, frozen, and he had watched as someone he’d only ever felt twisted feelings for, told him that he should have died.

“I should have left you there,” Potter had spat, and _there_ didn’t need to be explained, because God knew how many times Draco had seen the scene in his dreams.

Flames, a hand, screaming—it was a _memory_ , and it was vivid—so fucking vivid, in golds and oranges and reds—but it had all happened so fast that none of it was really _real_ anymore. One thing, though, that Draco wouldn’t be soon to forget, was that in that room, where he had mended the cabinet, let Death Eaters into the school, saw his best friend die, Harry Potter saved his life. Some of that life stayed, of course it did, and maybe that was for the better. All he knew for certain was, well . . . he was missing _something_ important, and part of it _had to be_ living with that Boggart.

So, every day, he came back. And every day, he turned around and he wondered why it was so _hard_.

Things hadn’t been easy for a long time. Not since he was a teenager. Not since he was fourteen, maybe. A _young_ teenager. Ignorance over compassion was _easy_ , so fucking _easy_ , and it was what he _was_ and how he did things. Ignorance and slurs and misinformation.

Then, he’d turned sixteen, been forced into the Death Eaters, and people told him he was just like his father. And that, his biggest fear, became reality.

He hadn’t felt properly scared for a while, after that.

But then, the war—a battle and a fire and two lies. Shortly after all of it happened, Pansy went to France and Lucius went back to Azkaban and Narcissa reconciled with her sister, Andromeda. Things were getting better, really. Everyone had bad memories. Some ran, some sought out help, and some . . . tried to face them.

He _was_ trying. It had been two months since he’d first come into this room, and every day he had come back to the study. Sometimes he didn’t go inside, but turned and left and went about his day with self-loathing weighing him down, stabbing like red-hot blades in his chest.

He’d sent a letter to Pansy and asked what she would suggest. She had taken nearly three weeks to respond, but he’d gotten the letter back last week. Her only suggestion was to talk to the _real_ Potter. The mere thought of it had made him want to burn the letter, but he couldn’t deny that her logic was understandable.

After seven more failed attempts at the Boggart, Draco had sighed and dug up Pansy’s letter again. He resolved, then, that he would find Potter, and he’d sent a letter.

Now, he held the returned letter isn’t his hand, and squinted at the scrawled writing.

_Malfoy,_

_I’m not entirely sure why you might need my help with anything, but I have little to do these days, and, personally, I wouldn’t exactly call us enemies anymore. I’ll come to the Manor shortly after lunchtime, so long as your issue won’t take hours and hours out of my day._

_Signed,_

_Harry Potter_.

It _really_ didn’t feel like it was written by Potter, but Draco couldn’t be bothered with that. Chances were, Potter hadn’t wanted to reply, and Granger had written the letter and forced him to. Why she would do that, Draco didn’t even want to guess.

Glancing at his watch, Draco gave a small sigh and told himself that four hours wasn’t _too_ long to wait for someone he was supposed to hate.

* * *

Potter was surprisingly punctual. Draco didn’t want to call himself _eager_ , but maybe there was something to be said for how quickly he got up to answer the door.

When he opened it, he was thankful he wasn’t holding anything.

Potter had always been messy and held together by emotions he wore on his sleeves. He was passionate about— _everything_. This wasn’t—well, it couldn’t be, anyway—Potter. Tired, dull eyes and a thin expression on his face. Messy hair, of course, messy everything, really, but nothing was holding him together, now.

“Come in,” Draco said finally, and Potter obeyed, eyes flicking to each wall and corner quickly, as if hunting for a threat. He seemed to relax after a moment, though, and Draco led him through the halls slowly.

“It looks different here,” Potter murmured.

“Yes, well, I’m sure the Dark Lord’s presence made quite a difference on the appearance,” Draco said, almost snappish but not quite.

“Call him his name,” Potter said distractedly. “He’s dead, remember? Fear of him is rather pointless.”

Draco tightened his jaw, but didn’t say anything. He had petitioned Potter’s help, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to _get_ it.

Draco came to a halt in front of his father’s study, and turned to face Potter. “What I need help with is in here, but I would rather take care of it myself.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Well, Pansy suggested it, and I just . . . I . . .” He sighed. “Listen, I _know_ it’s stupid, but I just need to talk to you about it, I think.”

Potter eyed him curiously. “Well, what is it, then?”

Draco looked down and hoped that Potter wouldn’t laugh. “It’s a Boggart.”

Potter didn’t speak, and when Draco looked up again, he was nodding in understanding.

“I just—it’s—I can’t get rid of it,” Draco confessed. “Because I don’t know—it _says_ things and I don’t know if I believe it or not.”

“Why do you need me?” Potter said again, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, I get it—Boggarts can be nasty to deal with. But I don’t see what it has to do with me.”

Draco counted five seconds while neither of them spoke, but finally he found as voice despite the thickness in his throat. “It’s—you just need—I need you to tell me if it’s true or not.”

The words had tumbled out in a fast-spoken mass, but Potter appeared to have understood, and he frowned. “Maybe you should just show me, Malfoy. It seems as though you can’t get the words out.”

And he was right, so Draco opened the door and went inside the study. He looked over his shoulder at Potter, who stood in expectance, and took a deep breath before pulling the closet doors open again.

Suddenly, there was another Potter, but this one stood with malice in his eyes and barbed words on his tongue, and Draco hunched his shoulders as the second Potter spoke.

“I should have left you there. You should have died in that fire. I—”

Draco felt himself pushed to the side and a _crack_ echoed throughout the room, and suddenly the Boggart had changed. Draco looked up to see a man and a woman standing before Potter. The man looked similar to Potter, but the eyes weren’t the same, and the face shape was a little more squared. The woman had green eyes that flashed the way Potter’s used to and wore the tight expression Potter had today.

“You let us die,” the man said, and the woman nodded sadly. Another _crack_ filled the air, and it was Potter’s godfather, and he repeated the words. Before the next change could occur, Potter brandished his wand and called out, “ _Riddikulus!_ ”

Black turned into a dog and barked joyfully, tail wagging, and Potter turned to face Draco with a grave look on his face.

“I think we should discuss this somewhere else,” Draco said shakily, standing and dusting off his robes with as much dignity as he could muster. Which, admittedly, was very little, but Potter made no remark as they left Lucius’s study.

“I know it might be too much to ask,” Potter said suddenly, “but I would prefer not to stay here too much longer. I know you want to put your worries aside, but I really wouldn’t feel right doing that _here_.”

Where one of his best friends was tortured, Draco thought, and where he himself was almost handed over to—Voldemort.

“I understand. Let’s find somewhere else to go.”

Potter looked surprised for a moment, then smiled at him, and Draco felt himself breathe a little easier.

* * *

 Potter explained that he was living in London, in his godfather’s old house which he’d tasked himself with cleaning up more than they’d done when the Order of the Phoenix had used it as their headquarters. He’d added he was looking to live somewhere else, but he couldn’t exactly just _sell_ the house.

They went to Grimmauld Place, and Draco couldn’t believe Potter had spent the past year cleaning the house up, but Potter assured him that it had looked much worse before he’d started.

Draco had never been in the house, despite his blood relations. His mother had been, as her aunt and uncle had owned it, but they’d passed away before Draco could ever meet them. And, really, he was glad of that fact, based on their old home.

“Tea?” Potter asked. “Coffee?”

“No, thank you,” Draco said, sitting at the table stiffly. “I don’t want to keep you longer than I have to.”

Potter nodded and sat across from him.

“I wouldn’t have ever considered leaving you there, you know,” he said after a moment. “In the Room of Requirement. Hermione always said I have a—a _saving people_ thing, and maybe she’s right, but I couldn’t have left you there.”

“Why?”

“I don’t hate you, Malfoy. I don’t think I ever have, not really.” Potter hesitated, then smiled slightly. “And . . . you saved me first.”

“That’s not a good enough reason,” Draco said, shaking his head. “I also said awful things about your parents and your friends and _you_.”

“Would you say those things now?”

“It doesn’t matter. I still said them, even—”

“Would you?”

Three taps of the finger against his leg. A sigh.

“No,” he said.

“I trust that. I think people change, Malfoy. A might not have forgiven you two years ago for the things you did, but I’m not that person anymore. I would be stupid to say the war only changed me.”

“But—”

“People change,” Potter repeated. “I still wouldn’t leave you to burn.”

“I don’t see why you wouldn’t,” Draco snapped. “I’m the reason a lot of people are dead. If it weren’t for me—”

“I would be dead, too,” Potter said flatly. “ _Listen_ to me, Malfoy. _You saved me first_. When you refused to tell Bellatrix it was me. You could have died for that, and yet you did it. Why?”

Draco felt him go tense. “I don’t _know_! I just—did it. I thought I’d hated you. I thought I would have liked to see you lose the war. I thought a lot of ridiculous things, but I—I _don’t know_.”

“Would you do it again?”

“That’s never going to happen again.”

“But if it did?”

Five taps against the leg this time, and Draco looked down and swallowed.

“Yes.”

“Not everything needs a reason, you know,” Potter said, and Draco glanced up to see him smiling slightly. “I didn’t leave you in the fire because I don’t believe you deserved to die, but it was—more than that. I think you deserve to live and to make amends. You want to make amends, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” Draco whispered. “But I don’t think people should forgive me.”

“You were young, Malfoy. You made mistakes. You wanted to protect your family. Nobody can blame you for that.”

“But they _do_ ,” Draco insisted. “They wanted to send me to Azkaban, remember?”

“Okay, so maybe some of them blame you,” Potter said. “I don’t, and neither should anyone with a brain. I was trying to protect _my_ family, too. You just happened to be on the wrong side of things.”

Draco shook his head, but said nothing.

“I really wouldn’t ever consider leaving you in that fire, Malfoy,” Potter whispered. “You have to believe that.

Draco sighed. “Well, I don’t know if I believe you, but I have to at least thank you for getting rid of that Boggart, even if you wound being the one to face it.” A question was on his lips, but he didn’t dare speak it. Potter seemed to see it, somehow, though, and he leaned forward with an odd look in his eyes.

“It’s changed. It was never—them. I talked to them, right before—well, right before _I_ died. They said it wasn’t my fault.”

“How did you—?”

Potter smiled. “It’s a long story. Maybe I could tell you another time.”

Draco blinked. “You can’t possibly want . . .” He trailed off, too stunned to say the words he wanted to.

“You said yourself you weren’t convinced that I don’t think I should have left you there, didn’t you? I think that means I’ll have to convince you, somehow. And you have amends to make, right? Why not start with me?”

Draco wanted to laugh, suddenly, and he almost did, but Potter seemed so _genuine_. “How do you know you can convince me?”

“I don’t,” Potter said simply. “But I’ll stick around until I have.”

“And then you’ll just . . . leave?” Draco raised an eyebrow.

“Well, if that’s what you want.” Potter shrugged. “We aren’t exactly friends.”

“But we could be.”

Potter gave him a curious look. “Yeah, I suppose we could.”

Draco smiled and tapped his fingers against the table. “All right, then. Try again tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll convince me eventually.”

Potter just stared. “Are you—?”

“You said it best yourself.” Draco shrugged. “We’ve both changed. I don’t consider you my enemy anymore, either.”

“So . . . ?”

“Well, as long as it takes, right?” Draco stuck out his hand. “We can try again, as . . . different people.”

Potter took his hand and shook it. “As long as it takes,” he promised.

And for the first time in a long time, Draco was glad Potter had saved him from the fire the year before.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are, as always, greatly appreciated!


End file.
